


Sweet Thing

by raghorn



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Food as Unintentional Exhibitionism, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-14 18:16:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11788722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raghorn/pseuds/raghorn
Summary: Sidney Crosby is standing, in a large Penguins hoodie and shorts, in front of Mario Lemieux’s open freezer, a container of ice cream in one hand, a spoon in the other.He has, Zhenya notices, a smudge of chocolate in the corner of his mouth.





	Sweet Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Some preliminary disclaimers: 
> 
> I am aware that Geno did not, in fact, go straight to Pittsburgh during his dramatic exit from Russia.  
> I am also aware that Geno did not, in fact, spend his first night in the USA at Mario’s.  
> But, given that this is a work of fiction and I can bend its every inch to my desires, I did what I wanted to do.

Zhenya doesn’t remember meeting Sidney Crosby.

He doesn’t fault himself for it; his system is still flooded with adrenaline and exhaustion when Seryozha pulls him through a doorway and more frenzied English explodes around them. Zhenya hates English already, hates the way it twists around his ears in a confusing storm of ugly vowels and stretched consonants. It doesn’t make it easier for his travel-worn brain to understand what’s going on around him.

He’s passed around, shakes the hand of Mario Lemieux and is quickly ushered upstairs to a guest room. Seryozha tells him he can rest here while the adults talk, and Zhenya doesn’t even register the jab at his age before he falls face-first into the pillows, asleep before he hears the door shut behind Seryozha.

America is awful.

Zhenya loves it already.

 

* * *

 

Zhenya jerks awake at 2:45 in the morning, according to the watch still on his wrist. It takes him a moment to gather himself, to remember where he is; the room he’s in doesn’t have the carefully-constructed soullessness of a hotel room, but it’s definitely been empty for some time.

It’s the English books, with their fine covering of dust on a bookshelf in the corner, that remind him.

He’s at Mario Lemieux’s house.

Zhenya is at Mario Lemieux’s house, and he’s absolutely starving.

His stomach growls at him as he shifts off the bed, and Zhenya thinks back to the meal he turned away on the flight to America thanks to the nervousness occupying his stomach instead. Zhenya’s barely eaten in the last three days, forced down meals when he could, ordering them to the hotel room in Helsinki and eating under the careful eyes of Olga, the interpreter with her strangely-accented Russian, as J.P. hissed on his phone a room away.

He had half a burger on the morning he flew out, the rest of his appetite consumed by the feeling of eyes on his back and the worry that Velichkin would walk into the airport gate and hand Zhenya another contract, another pen, and tell him in that awful, condescending voice that Metallurg was where Zhenya belonged.

Zhenya had barely managed the half of the burger, and had dumped the fries straight into the nearest trashcan. His stomach had roiled as he leaned back in the uncomfortable airport chair, tugging his hat’s brim further down over his face. He was lucky to have managed to eat what he did.

So Zhenya stands, wobbling a little, in the guest room in Mario Lemieux’s house, in Pittsburgh, in America, and listens to his stomach grumble.

Zhenya is alone in a foreign country and he feels like his stomach is about to eat itself. It certainly could be worse, but he’s unsure what his future will look like if this is how he starts his career in America. He considers searching for his phone before realizing that he left it in his mother’s care once he confided in her that he wouldn’t be coming home with the team.

Zhenya tries very, very hard to quell the sudden spike of panic lancing through his hunger at the reminder that he can’t call her or anyone, that his sole resources are here: J.P., Brisson, Seryozha, Olga. He chants the names to himself, running over them like a worry stone. J.P., Brisson, Seryozha, Olga.

He’ll be fine. He’s paid three of them and is relying on the commonality of shared national blood for the fourth. They’ll get him where he needs to go, tell him what he needs to know.

They can’t, however, deliver any food to him at the moment, so Zhenya heads towards the door of the bedroom.

Mario Lemieux, Zhenya reasons, is a very rich man with a very nice home.

Surely he won’t mind if Zhenya investigates his kitchen.

 

* * *

 

Zhenya is exhausted, which is the excuse he’ll tell his mother when he explains why he snuck through his host’s house and pilfered their food without asking first. Such manners were not bred in him, and even though the noises from his stomach keep moving him down the large staircase, he comes up with half-baked excuses in case Mario Lemieux suddenly pops out of a doorway and demands to know what Zhenya is getting up to.

Zhenya pauses on a step when he realizes his English isn’t good enough to explain that he hasn’t eaten in many, many hours.

He hopes Mario Lemieux is good at charades.

Zhenya’s operating solely on hunger and instinct at this point, curving around the stairway and heading towards what he can only hope is the kitchen. He has his hands held out in front of him, not wanting to stumble into a precious antique vase or valuable signed memorabilia or whatever it is that people with such large houses fill them with.  

Zhenya moves around a side table, heading straight for a doorway that looks promising, and when he pokes his head into the dark room, he discovers he’s not alone.

Sidney Crosby is standing, in a large Penguins hoodie and shorts, in front of Mario Lemieux’s open freezer, a container of ice cream in one hand, a spoon in the other.

He has, Zhenya notices, wondering if he’s dreaming or maybe hallucinating, a smudge of chocolate in the corner of his mouth.

Crosby looks at Zhenya like he’s been caught, which maybe he has — Zhenya doesn’t know what Mario Lemieux’s rules are on teammates stealing thing from his fridge — and says something low and hoarse to Zhenya.

Zhenya just looks at him.

Crosby’s small. Zhenya at least has a few inches on him, and Crosby has fat clinging to his jaw and cheeks. Zhenya’s watched Crosby play, seen enough of him on the ice since he was drafted to the Penguins, and it’s strange to see him here now, standing in front of the poor light from the fridge.

Crosby says something else to Zhenya, quickly closing the door of the refrigerator and plunging the kitchen back into darkness. Crosby’s voice is higher than Zhenya expected it to be, and it takes him a moment to see what Crosby is doing in the darkness.

Crosby steps closer to Zhenya, puts his ice cream and spoon on the island counter as he goes, and opens a cabinet low in the island. When he stands up, he’s gripping something in his hand that crinkles, and he holds it out to Zhenya, silent.

Zhenya watches him, still unsure if he’s asleep and having a frenzied hunger dream.

Crosby fiddles with the package and oh — it opens and Zhenya is presented with cookies, lined up neatly in little rows. He glances up at Crosby, who’s watching him in the dark, eyes cast in shadow, and tentatively plucks one from the container.

This way, if Mario Lemieux asks why Zhenya was pilfering food, he can say at least it was Crosby who offered it to him.

The cookie is overly sweet in the way that American desserts are; Zhenya’s had American candy before, when guys at Metallurg passed some around, and it’s unimpressive and cloying in his mouth, but it’s food, and Zhenya’s stomach rumbles again as a reminder that it cares very little what kind of food Zhenya eats so long as it’s edible.

Crosby looks down at Zhenya’s stomach and mutters something under his breath before handing off the entire package of cookies to Zhenya and heading straight back to the fridge. Zhenya watches, still utterly unsure as to why Sidney Crosby is in Mario Lemieux’s house at such an hour.

Crosby pulls out a tray of something covered in tin foil and goes for another cabinet, where he secures a plate. He’s banging around loud enough that it makes Zhenya flinch; he’s not entirely sure what’s happening, but he doesn’t want his new employer finding out.

Crosby tosses his concoction into the microwave and turns it on, the hum a loud buzz in the silence of the night. Crosby turns back to Zhenya, opens his mouth, reconsiders, and turns back to the microwave, watching the plate inside turn around.

Zhenya’s eyes have managed to readjust, and he considers Crosby’s back.

He has a nice ass.

The microwave beeps and Crosby clatters around with the dish — Zhenya smells pasta, and his stomach _wants_ — before grabbing a fork from a rattling drawer and presenting the plate to Zhenya.

 _Oh_ , Zhenya thinks as he looks down at Crosby’s hands, holding out the plate piled high with a dish that is all noodles and cheese and what appears to be meat. Crosby pushes the plate at Zhenya again and Zhenya reaches out, trading the package of cookies for the warm dish. Crosby tosses the cookies onto the counter and presses the fork into Zhenya’s other palm.

Crosby smiles at him in the dark, his teeth shining in the low light, and Zhenya smiles back before stabbing at a noodle and lifting it to his mouth, just barely touching it to his lips to test the heat of it.

Crosby watches as Zhenya takes his first bite, and when Zhenya goes back for a second, Crosby motions him towards two high stools pressed into a bar-like countertop, ushering Zhenya towards them and snagging his ice cream along the way.

Zhenya spends his first night in America in Mario Lemieux’s kitchen, carefully eating a plate of pasta as Sidney Crosby sits beside him, shoveling ice cream into his mouth.

 

* * *

 

Seryozha apologizes begrudgingly to Zhenya the next morning, explaining that yes, Crosby lives with Lemieux, and yes, Lemieux said Zhenya could sleep in a guest room after his day of traveling.

“You don’t remember meeting Sid?” Seryozha asks him, and Zhenya shakes his head.

“Maybe that isn’t a surprise,” Seryozha seems to tell himself. “You were so exhausted I don’t know if you saw him trying to shake your hand when we came in.”

“He seemed nice,” Zhenya says diplomatically. “He heated up pasta for me.”

“Surprised he didn’t just stuff you with those cookies he likes so much,” Seryozha huffs, but Zhenya can hear a strain of fondness in his voice. “He’s got a serious eye for sweet things, that kid.”

Zhenya thinks back to the image of smeared chocolate beneath full lips and silently agrees.

 

* * *

 

Zhenya is in love with the Penguins, undecided about America, and in a passionate battle with English.

By week three he feels somewhat settled in the locker room; he’s still absolutely plastered to Seryozha’s side as often as he can get away with, but it’s easy enough to laugh and smile when the other guys do and search for the words he knows. Hockey vocabulary is the easiest, and Zhenya isn’t stupid. He can follow along with a conversation even if he can only pick out a few words here and there.

He likes Crosby, though.

 _Sid_ , Zhenya tells himself. _He told you to call him Sid._

Sid is pretty quiet and ducks away from the other guys when they get too rowdy, but he’s ever-present and always ready to smile at Zhenya if he catches his eyes.

And that’s without mentioning how fucking phenomenal playing with him is.

Sid is fast and furious on the ice and he must have eyes all over his body, because he sees things Zhenya cannot and will not ever catch. It’s inspiring. It makes Zhenya want to be better, and whenever Sid smiles at him across the ice, something warm settles in Zhenya’s bones.

That’s why Zhenya goes to the grocery store with Seryozha, picks out a package of cookies that look like the ones Sid offered to him in Mario’s dark kitchen, and adds them to the cart.

Seryozha raises an eyebrow at the cart and then turns on Zhenya, looking him up and down with the sort of exaggerated weight the rest of the team still uses when Zhenya’s weak vocabulary forces them into charades.

“What,” Zhenya says defiantly, fixing his eyes straight ahead.

“Nothing,” Seryozha says lightly, and keeps pushing the cart forward.

Zhenya stows them in his hoodie’s front pocket the next day, and he slips into the locker room before Seryozha can follow. He slides the cookies into the shelf above Sid’s seat and busies himself with his equipment in his own locker, trying his hardest to look inconspicuous.

He won’t fool Seryozha, but he also doesn’t think Seryozha will rat him out.

The locker room fills up quickly — Seryozha had indulged Zhenya’s request to arrive to practice early, but he had refused to arrive _too_ early — and Zhenya’s keeping Sid’s locker in the corner of his eye as he pulls his Under Armour on and messes with his skates.

When Sid shows up, Zhenya stiffens, glancing over his shoulder and waiting in tense anticipation as Sid nears his locker and dumps his stuff at its base. Sid laughs at something Gill says to him and turns to his locker, and Zhenya watches as he lifts his face up and sees —

Sid pauses, looking up at his shelf, and he reaches a tentative hand up, pulling the cookies down and tilting his head at them. He half-turns to the locker room, mouth opening like he’s about to ask, but he stops and looks back down at the package again, considering it.

Zhenya watches as a small smile breaks onto Sid’s face, and Sid tucks the cookies back into his locker, his lips keeping that small, happy tilt as he works on getting ready for practice.

Good, Zhenya tells himself. Now they’re even. That’s that.

He heads for the ice, and he certainly isn’t thinking about Sid’s smile when he misses his first shot at the goal.

 

* * *

 

It starts with the cookies.

Then Zhenya leaves a candy bar from a vending machine in Sid’s locker a few days later, and Sid looks around the locker room again before shrugging and splitting open the wrapper right there, taking off a bite before pulling his shirt over his head, and oh.

_Oh._

Zhenya’s gaze darts away and he reaches for his skates, starts pulling them on and fiddling with the laces.

When he glances up again, Sid’s got his practice clothes on and is taking another bite of the candy, a little bit of the chocolate shell flaking off and falling to his feet.

Zhenya watches Sid’s tongue dig into the corner of his lips between bites and feels the warmth in his bones start to curl up in his belly, hot and low.

This is not good, Zhenya realizes.

He makes a note to stop by the grocery store with Seryozha later anyways.

 

* * *

 

Zhenya’s spent half a year as a Penguin, America doesn’t scare him anymore, and English is still a bastard.

He can use it better, though, so it’s less of a bastard than it was before.

He’s good enough that the loud swell of voices in Mario’s den doesn’t overwhelm him as much anymore, that he can laugh and follow along and throw in a few words as the rest of the guys on the team drink and joke and enjoy the party that is technically in his honor; J.P. had heard today that Metallurg was dropping its lawsuit.

Zhenya had asked George — the kindly man in the ticket office who had taken to being Zhenya’s unofficial interpreter — if he wanted to come, but George had laughed him off, told Zhenya that a party was no place for an old man like him and that Zhenya would be fine talking to his teammates without a geezer like him ruining the atmosphere.

Zhenya is inclined to agree, but even if he can keep up, it’s exhausting to manage all the words and all the voices saying them. English makes his brain tired, and he’s already peeling away from the gaggle of teammates in front of him, veering away towards the kitchen to maybe find a beer or another reasonable distraction so he can cool off for a few minutes.

He runs into Sid in the kitchen doorway, nearly tipping over the piece of cake Sid has teetering on a thin paper plate.

“Oh,” Sid says. “Hey, Geno.”

“Hi,” Zhenya says back.

“Nice party, huh?” Sid asks him, poking at his slice of cake with a fork.

“Yes, nice,” Zhenya parrots back, and watches as Sid takes a too-big bite of cake.

“Good?” he asks, and when Sid raises his eyebrows at him, he gestures to the plate in Sid’s hands.

“Yeah!” Sid reassures him. “Really good. You tried any?”

“No,” Zhenya says, and before he can get any further, Sid holds his fork up to Zhenya’s face, a chunk of cake speared on its tines.

“It’s good, have some,” Sid tells him, and Zhenya can’t do much but open his mouth and let Sid place the cake on his tongue.

Sid is right, it’s good cake, but it’s not worth the noises Sid makes around the next mouthful he takes. Sid nods at him, lips in a closed smile as he chews, and Zhenya has to smile back. Sid wanders off back into the fray of his team, and Zhenya is left stranded in the kitchen, considering what, exactly, he’s gotten himself into.

 

* * *

 

Zhenya gets a little bold.

George brings him to the Russian market on a Sunday, and Zhenya steps inside, hears the cashier speaking in Russian to her customer, and feels a spool of tension unwind at the base of his spine. George tugs Zhenya back through the aisles, muttering something about the butcher, and Zhenya just turns his head and looks at the familiar labels they pass, relaxing into the Cyrillic and taking a deep breath.

He grabs the bag of korovka off the shelf before he realizes what he’s doing. Seeing the familiar smiling cow on the front of the packaging feels like seeing a slice of home, and Zhenya keeps the bag clutched tight in his grip as George waves at the butcher and wanders over to him, leaving Zhenya by the candy display.

Zhenya looks at the display, feeling the scent of his grandmother’s house tickle the back of his throat, remembering how her strong hands would press one of the wrapped candies into his palm as soon as he crossed her threshold.

Zhenya considers the display once more.

He tries to remember if Sid likes caramel when he grabs another bag.

 

* * *

 

Zhenya leaves the bag for Sid without really thinking about it. It’s been months and he’s left candy and cupcakes and even some fudge he stole from under Ksenia’s nose. It feels normal: get to Consol early, leave something on Sid’s shelf, inconspicuously watch him as he eats, repeat.

So when Sid instinctively reaches for the top of his shelf, grabs the bag of korovka, pulls it down, glances at it, and immediately turns around to look at Zhenya, Zhenya freezes.

Sid smiles at him, a little bemused, and Zhenya shrugs helplessly. Sid rips open the bag and pulls out one of the candies, unwrapping it and looking it over before popping it into his mouth. His lips glisten as he chews. Zhenya feels incredibly, incredibly stupid.

Sid meets Zhenya’s eyes again and smiles, gesturing towards the bag and giving Zhenya small thumbs up. Zhenya nods at him, not quite able to pull his face into a genuine expression just yet, and Sid turns back to his locker, pulling another piece of candy out of the bag before setting it down with his stuff.

Zhenya turns back to his locker and does his best to act like his anonymous gift-giving hasn’t been exposed. It’s not a big deal, surely. Maybe Sid just thinks Zhenya is trying to impress him, maybe Sid thinks Zhenya is sucking up to his future captain.

Which, of course, is why his mind goes blank when Sid grabs his elbow after practice, just before Zhenya is about to leave the locker room.

“Hey,” he says, and Zhenya swallows. “Thanks for the candy, it’s good. What’s it called?”

“Uh,” Zhenya says. “Korovka, is like… little…”

He trails off and gestures to the cartoon on the package’s front, where it peeks out of Sid’s bag.

“Cow?” Sid says, and Zhenya nods, hoping Sid’s using the right word.

“Yeah, little cow. You like?”

“They’re great, Geno, thank you,” Sid tells him, and Zhenya feels caught and stupid but also a little pleased, the small validation of Sid’s thanks burrowing into his chest and already making a home there.

“You know?” Zhenya asks him, deciding to ride this all the way through, and Sid looks at him, baffled.

“You know about candy?” Zhenya asks again, and Sid laughs a little, ducking his head.

“Yeah, I figured it out pretty fast. You got here and then candy started showing up in my locker. Wasn’t too hard.”

Zhenya is woefully unimpressed with himself, but he doesn’t have much time to ruminate on his critical thinking skills because Sid looks at him a little sideways and asks, “Why’d you do it?”

Zhenya’s gaze drops so quickly to Sid’s lips that he can’t control it, and when he jerks his eyes back up to meet Sid’s, he can see understanding dawning in Sid’s expression.

“Oh,” Sid says quietly, and Zhenya’s mind is racing, already trying to come up with some explanation that he can spit out in English, but Sid just reaches out, hesitates, and then puts his hand against Zhenya’s shoulder.

“Want to come over tonight?” Sid asks him, voice low and colored by a soft tone of nerves. “We can just… hang out, y’know?”

Zhenya’s mouth goes dry.

“Okay,” he agrees, just as quiet, and Sid breaks away from him, removing his hand and straightening up.

“I’ll text you,” Sid says before turning back to his bag, messing around with its contents and tucking the package of korovka back inside.

“Okay,” Zhenya says again and makes his escape, his stomach dancing like he’s got a parade of little cows stamping around inside it.

 

* * *

 

Zhenya makes an impulse decision on his way over to Mario’s.

He has the taxi stop at the nicest grocery store he can find and runs inside to the bakery section. He’s about to just grab the most expensive cheesecake they have, but his eye catches on a Reese’s cheesecake at the last second, and Zhenya buys it without another thought and is back in the taxi before he can even catch his breath.

Zhenya feels a little foolish and blatant when he gets to Mario’s doorstep, but he figures that this is as good a time as any to be direct. Sid seemed to… Sid seemed to _understand_ , and Sid was the one who invited him over, so surely…well.

Either way, Sid will appreciate the cheesecake. Zhenya’s seen him at restaurants, indulging himself at any chance he can get with rich and creamy desserts. Zhenya’s confident he chose well.

Of course, that confidence evaporates when Sid opens the door and pulls Zhenya inside.

“Oh, you brought –” Sid says when he sees that Zhenya’s hands are full, and he takes the cake from Zhenya easily.

“Know you like,” Zhenya gets out, and Sid smiles at him. Zhenya thinks he melts into the floor.

“C’mon,” Sid murmurs, and he takes Zhenya by the wrist and pulls him up the stairs. It’s all Zhenya can do to follow.

Sid takes him up a few flights and finally yanks Zhenya through a door on the top floor. They’re in what looks like an in-law suite that, given the hockey equipment piled by the door, Sid has been repurposing.

Zhenya doesn’t have much time to observe, though, because it’s only a second before Sid mutters, “It’s been a while since I’ve…,” grips Zhenya’s jaw, and pulls Zhenya’s mouth to his.

Sid’s lips are so soft.

They’re plush and they press into Zhenya’s like a dream, and Zhenya inhales sharply through his nose because Sidney Crosby is working Zhenya’s lips open with his tongue and his mouth is warm and a little aggressive on Zhenya’s and Zhenya both expected this and did not expect it at all and –

Sid shifts them a step to the side, and then another, and then he’s pressing Zhenya down onto a couch and Zhenya lets himself sink into the cushions, pressed up in the crevice between the high arm and the back of the couch. His legs part and Sid quickly moves in between Zhenya’s spread thighs, starting to press his body against Zhenya’s.

He breaks away from Zhenya’s lips and Zhenya gasps in a breath that he desperately needs, but he goes searching for Sid’s lips again, because _fuck_ , it felt good.

Sid has other ideas.

He starts working on Zhenya’s neck, nipping and biting at the skin and working it over with his tongue, and Zhenya stares up at the ceiling, blind and panting, not quite sure how, exactly, his life wound up this way.

He certainly isn’t complaining.

He moves a hand up into Sid’s hair and wraps his fingers in the curls there, trying to tug Sid’s face back up; as nice as Sid’s work on his neck is, Zhenya just wants those lips on his lips, just wants Sid’s tongue working its way back inside Zhenya’s mouth.

Sid relents and follows where Zhenya’s hand pulls him, and he sighs happily into Zhenya’s mouth, leaning harder into Zhenya’s body. Zhenya’s lips are starting to get sore but he keeps moving them, the hot, slick friction of it making him roll his hips up into Sid’s body just a little, just as much as he can get away with.

Sid groans, the vibrations moving in Zhenya’s mouth, and he clamps a hand onto one of Zhenya’s thighs, shifting against Zhenya with a hint of purpose.

“Shit,” he breathes against Zhenya’s lips, and Zhenya gasps. “C’mon, just –”

Sid moves his leg and straddles one of Zhenya’s thighs; he rocks his hips down, his lips pressing more insistently into Zhenya’s, and Zhenya’s hands move from where they were hovering, unsure, around Sid’s head down to Sid’s hips, gripping so tight that Sid moans into his mouth.

Sid starts up a rocking motion, tentatively rolling his hips down into Zhenya’s thigh, and Zhenya thinks he might die like this, drowned in Sid’s lips and weight and breath.

Zhenya pulls Sid down onto him harder.

“Geno, Geno, come on,” Sid whines against Zhenya’s lips, and he shifts his knee so his leg is pressed against Zhenya’s dick. Zhenya yanks Sid down onto him on the next thrust, groaning into Sid’s mouth.

Sid’s lips are still burning against his, moving and tasting and sharing each breath, and his tongue curls into Zhenya’s mouth as Zhenya thrusts his hip up, jostling Sid and making him clench his fingers into Zhenya’s shoulders.

“Fuck, Geno, please,” Sid gets out before Zhenya bites at his lips again and curls one of his legs around Sid’s calf, trapping Sid’s thigh against his dick and moving his hips against the pressure.

Sid’s voice dies in his throat and he collapses against Zhenya, hips working furiously, lips pressed wet and sloppy against Zhenya’s jaw, tongue just barely tasting his skin. Zhenya can feel when Sid starts to come, can feel the tremors in his body grow until he’s pressing his hips against Zhenya in one long stroke and exhaling in stutters against Zhenya’s skin.

Sid languishes on top of Zhenya, and Zhenya’s hips shift against Sid’s stomach, which seems to spark life back into him. He pushes himself up on his forearms, scoots down on the couch, and curls his fingers into the waistband of Zhenya’s jeans. He glances up at Zhenya, who’s seconds from biting his own fist to convince himself this is real.

“Is this okay?” Sid asks him, and it’s all Zhenya can do to jerk his head in a nod.

Sid yanks down Zhenya’s jeans and boxers in one motion and takes Zhenya’s dick in his hand as he looks up at Zhenya and tells him, “I haven’t done this in awhile, sorry,” before he brings Zhenya’s dick to his lips.

One of Zhenya’s hands digs into Sid’s hair as Sid takes him in his mouth, feeding Zhenya’s cock in between his lips steadily and curling his tongue against the side of it. Zhenya can’t remember ever feeling this sort of heat around his cock, can’t imagine a better slickness on his skin than the inside of Sid’s mouth.

Sid’s lips are stretched around him, shining and pink, and Zhenya has to stop himself from bucking his hips into the sensation, has to stop the hand in Sid’s hair from pulling too hard.

Zhenya’s fingers twitch in Sid’s curls as Sid starts to bob his head up and down on Zhenya’s cock, and his breath catches in his throat as Sid purses his lips against the head and looks up at Zhenya, the corner of his mouth twisting up in a smile.

Zhenya doesn’t blame himself for clenching his fingers in the strands of Sid’s hair and coming on Sid’s lips.

Sid whispers to him as he comes down, brushing his fingers along the strip of exposed skin under the edge of Zhenya’s shirt, and Zhenya weakly tugs Sid up just in time to see him wiping white streaks of cum off of his chin and scooping them directly into his mouth, letting his fingers drag on his lips when he pulls them out.

Zhenya twitches with want.

“Fuck, Sid,” he says, and Sid laughs at him, pushes at his shoulder.

Zhenya doesn’t hesitate to pull Sid closer to him again, to taste himself on Sid’s bruised lips.

 

* * *

 

They wind up where they started: in Mario Lemieux’s dark kitchen, sitting on the high bar stools, digging into the cheesecake directly with forks.

“You don’t need to keep bringing me food, you know,” Sid says. “I got the message loud and clear.”

“I like,” Zhenya says, watching as Sid licks a drizzle of chocolate from one of his hands.

“You like watching me eat?” Sid asks, and Zhenya shrugs, but he doesn’t get away with it.

Sid smiles to himself, turning his head a bit as his expression goes self-satisfied and a little dirty.

“Well,” he says. “I’ve got a few ideas, then.”

Zhenya smiles around his fork and knocks his ankle against Sid’s foot. Sid hooks his ankle around Zhenya’s leg and they sit there, quietly working on the cheesecake.

Zhenya wonders if any of those ideas involve whipped cream.


End file.
